Your whole life you'd been a black sheep. Never were you the muse, merely a means to an end. But for some reason, Arthur Morgan, the wanted criminal, had treated you like royalty since the moment he'd laid eyes on you. A biting cold settles into your skin as Arthur's horse trots on amidst the thick layer of snow, along with the rest of the gang. You tell yourself it's fine and that you don't mind, because it's easier than admitting it isn't fine and being ignored for it again. But then you feel it. Soft, insulated fabric coats you with a warmth beyond that of a fire. Arthur's jacket weighs heavily on your shoulders amidst the flurrying snow.

“Gotta stay warm, sweetheart. Don't want ya catchin’ a cold.”